


Breathe

by johnlockedfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Breathplay, Cardiophilia, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, One Shot, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 02:44:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11431527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockedfangirl/pseuds/johnlockedfangirl
Summary: Pure smut <3





	Breathe

Sherlock and John were fucking, and they were fucking beautifully. 

“Oh! Ngh, God -- !” Sherlock gasped out, as John pounded into him again and again. Both bodies slick with sweat, lube, and precome, they writhed a symphony on the bed, a symphony based on, heralded by, the heartbeat echoing around the room.

With John, being a doctor, and Sherlock, being Sherlock, between the two of them they had managed to secure an echocardiogram machine; the sticky pads framed Sherlock’s pale chest, and the beeping beat out a steadily increasing crescendo as he approached his climax. 

140 beats per minute. John’s strong arms were braced one on either side of his head, his defined muscles taut as he held himself up, straining to pound into his lover with everything he had. 147 beats per minute. Sherlock’s curls stuck to his forehead with sweat, the line of his spine arching up with pleasure.

“Ah! Mh - More, please!” he begged, chest heaving, a dark flush spreading like a stain beneath his pale skin. “Please, John, please!” John grunted, the squeaks of the bed beneath them and the banging of the headboard against the wall joining the shrill tones of the ECG.

156, 168 beats per minute; the fist-sized muscle galloped in Sherlock’s chest as though it were a piston in a finely-tuned engine. Sherlock was turned inside out, stuffed full, laid bare for the good doctor to hold, kiss, fuck lustfully, ravage tenderly. 

And ravage he did, to Sherlock’s own satisfaction. Sherlock’s nails dug into his shoulders, raking red marks over his flesh to join the twinging scar tissue. In return, John sucked marks into the skin of his neck, collarbone, anywhere he could reach. The darker bruises came with nights like tonight, with Sherlock begging him with those half-hooded eyes and desperate whimpers, and a needy, lustful voice -- 

_“Please.”_

And John was very happy to indulge him, to press a sure hand against Sherlock’s windpipe, cutting short the detective’s breath. He was happy to watch, as those brilliant eyes rolled back into his head, as those slender fingers grabbed at his own without purchase. He was happy to watch Sherlock’s face slowly turn a dusky red as he snapped his hips, feel the surging pulse at the carotids under his hands, ever-quickening. He watched for the safe signal (rarely given), kissing Sherlock’s parted lips, through which no air could be drawn. 

It was electricity to Sherlock; more maddening than any whiff of sentiment, more addicting than any drug. His thin chest heaved, diaphragm spasming with no luck. Sparks flew before his eyes; his mind palace disappearing into a swirl of pleasure and firecrackers.

 

John’s other hand snaked down between Sherlock’s legs, firmly stroking his leaking, aching cock. Sherlock’s spine arched; he would’ve screamed if he were able. A few good strokes and he was finishing, coming hard, spurting across John’s calloused hand and his own stomach. The frenzied beeping in the room reached its own climax, as John let his lover breathe again, releasing his come deep into him.

Both were panting. Sherlock gasped, his heart stuttering as it started to slow. John pulled out gently, curling up next to the detective.

The symphony slowed; the electronic beats coming down to their regular, restful 68 beats per minute. 

John sighed, running a hand down that thin chest, slowly drawing a hand through the come on his stomach. “Fucking beautiful.”


End file.
